


You're The Only Place That Feels Like Home

by orphan_account



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - No Band, Bandom - Freeform, Fall Out Boy - Freedom, First Meetings, GABILLIAM YEAH, M/M, Meet-Ugly, drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 05:15:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3965758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Knock-knock. KNOCK-KNOCK, who’s there? Some dumbhead that bothers Pete Wentz, The King Of Insomnia, in the middle of a night. KNOCK-KNOCK.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're The Only Place That Feels Like Home

**Author's Note:**

> The idea: #10 from this post http://tokiosunset.tumblr.com/post/105774914690

_In the morning it will all be better_

 

Knock-knock. KNOCK-KNOCK, who’s there? Some dumbhead that bothers Pete Wentz, The King Of Insomnia, in the middle of a night. KNOCK-KNOCK. This stubborn idiot's stronger than sleeping pills, which Pete had taken a few hours ago. It’s just 11:30 pm but really, sudden awakening enrages anyway.

Knock-knock.

“An-dy-y! ANDY! LET ME IN!!”

Hemingway barks, he's interested but Pete silently shakes his finger at the dog; if they will not pay any attention, there’ll be a chance that the ‘night owl’ will leave voluntarily.

“Quiet area, good neighbors,” the agent said and then recommended this small one-storey house in the outskirts of Chicago to Pete. Good neighbors, huh. Maybe someone of these ‘nice’ people will call the police. Somebody should to calm the man who shouts in the street.

“A-ANDY!” the uninvited guest jumps on the door with all his weight. “It's unfair!” he sighs resentfully before knocks at the door again.

This is beyond endurance. Pete grabs a baseball bat (he doesn't know what kind of maniac came to him and who the hell is Andy) and goes to find out who's behind the door. Joyful Hemingway runs after him, he just wants to play.

“I’m not Andy! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!!” Pete yells as he opens the door, with the bat in his hand.

“You’re not Andy… But you’re cool!” the man from the darkness says, it sounds like he’s really surprised.

Pete groans some inarticulate curse and slams his palm on the light switch, turning on a lamp in a carved lampshade above the door (the lampshade belongs to former owners; Pete doesn't like it, of course not).

Pete sees a guy in a gray baseball cap; he rests against the railing and shivers from the cold. The stranger's very short, so Pete lays his improvised weapon on the floor; probably it's kind of some inner respect. Pete doesn't want a fight anyway. In addition, a troublemaker's drunk as hell and he smells like cheap alcohol and he doesn't want to spend the night on the street, it’s obvious.

“Are you crazy?! Woah,” Pete resents when this strange dude tumbles into the hallway. “You need to sober up!”

Pete tries to push him out of his house.

“No-o, it’s like, ARCTIC!!” the guy sniffs and tries to stand up, holding onto the doorjamb.

September night is fucking cold, right.

Pete drags a guy into the hallway; he's still drunk, of course, and he can't stand on his feet so Pete lets to sit him down, leaning against the wall. English bulldog stares at the ‘living toy’ with curiosity in his clever eyes.

“Hemingway, no! He can’t stay here,” Pete mumbles reflectively.

“Hemi-what?”  the stranger talks a little bit indistinctly. “He-ming-way,” his tongue’s heavy but he finally utters the dog's name. “I’ll call you Hemmy…” he reaches out his arm to the dog.

No one in a whole world dares to call Hemingway just ‘Hemmy’. What a faux pas! Pete hopes that his dog will bite off lunatic's finger or something else. He starts to gloat but... Happy “Hemmy” licks guy's hands and face; he sprawled near the wall and obviously intends to sleep on the hallway floor. And Hemingway doesn't mind.

“Oh… You… How?!” Pete can’t find the words. That shameless man hugs the dog and makes himself comfortable on the parquet, covering his face with his baseball cap. “Get up or I’ll call the police!” Pete threatens timidly. He's not going to be anyone's nanny.

Hemingway looks at Pete with pleading eyes and defiantly licks his new friend's unshaved cheek. He’s calm, Pete thinks to himself.

“Today suuuucks,” the guy sighs wearily.

Of course it sucks and tomorrow you'll be feeling as if you were knocked by the train, Pete quips mentally.

“Hemingway, he can’t stay overnight _right here,_ “he tries to convince his watchful pet. “Let’s haul him on the… Armchair?  Pete offers.

Hemingway tilts his head and reluctantly gets out from the guy's embraces; he already fell asleep. Like a little child, oh.

The dog looks at Pete expectantly.

“I'm not going to kick him out, I promise,” Pete whispers, feeling guilty.

 Hemingway winks slyly like “Hey, of course you don’t”.

“I BELIEEEEEEEVE I CAN FLYYYYYYY!!” suddenly the ringtone starts to yell and Pete shudders with Hemingway for a company. The phone's owner blearily rolls onto his side but he doesn't wake up because he's fucking drunk and someone is searching for him, shit. Pete looks at the right front pocket of the guy's jeans; he knows the phone is there. “I BELIEEEEEVE I CAN TOOOOOUCH THE SKYYYY!!!” he has to answer the call, but it will be a very awkward conversation.

Pete reads the caller's name. Andy. “Oh, hi, Andy” he thinks before he presses an ‘Answer’ button.

“Patrick, where are you?! You…” concerned man’s voice asks. “Patrick?”

Pete finds the guts to talk.

“Well… Um, it’s not Patrick actually,” great way to start the dialogue and Pete curses himself. English bulldog barks sonorously and buries his wet nose into the sleeping man's neck. He doesn’t care.

“Oh God… Is he okay?!” Andy’s panic turns into a tantrum.

“Um… If Patrick is a red-haired dude in a baseball cap, I think he's fine, except for he's drunk... He passed out in my house, by the way,” Pete explains.

Another voice connects to a conversation; its owner has a lisp, slightly.

“Fuck! Tell us your address, we’ll come.”

Already familiar Andy's timbre supports him enthusiastically.

“Oh yeah, where are you?”

Pete walks around the hallway's perimeter, looking at (he knows the name, so cool) Patrick; watchful Hemingway leans against him. Patrick smiles sleepily and strokes Hemingway's head; the dog protectively licks Patrick's nose. Pete almost laughs at the fact: “Sorry, I promised to my dog that your friend will spend the night at my house”.

“Oh… _Patrick_ is fine, WAIT!” Pete interrupts the call, rummages in the settings and finds the camera. He photographs Patrick, who sleeps on the floor, hugging the dog; Pete sends a picture to Andy with the message ‘i'll carry him to the couch huh’. Good idea.

His interlocutor calls back after a few minutes.

“Oh… Forgive him… We'll take him tomorrow morning. Joe?” Andy asks the other guy. Joe (he's recognizable by diction) agrees and asks.

“Yeah. Where are you living?”

Pete forgets his own address for a moment.

“Ramen-Street, 182… Tomorrow? Maybe at 11am?”

“Okay,” Joe and Andy say in unison. Short beeps.

Pete sends the photo to his own number; it's really cute and he really wants to get Patrick's number, maybe for some blackmail thing. Since childhood, people around Pete teach him that he shall not to break his word so he tries to avoid making promises. But tonight he said to Hemingway that Patrick will sleep in their house and also said to Patrick's friends that he'll sleep on a couch. Two promises in one night, bingo!

Pete’s starts attacking his pet with the words, but very gently.

“Listen,” he turns to the dog. “Do you like our couch? Alright, you’ll sleep on a couch, with… our new _friend_ ,” Pete persuades in a sickly-sweet tone.

Hemingway thinks, yeah, he fucking likes couch. And he loves Patrick, but he doesn't know why. Bulldog steps aside, wagging his tail friendly.

Pete kneels beside Patrick and slightly slaps the sleeping guy's cheek.

“M-m?” Patrick responds, but doesn't open his eyes.

“Let’s go to the room, get up… Oh well…” Pete wraps his hands around Patrick's shoulders and tries to lift him up. He's heavy, soft and warm, he faintly smells like alcohol and Hemingway's saliva.

“Help me,” Pete grumbles and looks at the dog; Hemingway barks happily like he gives a moral support.  In the darkness, Pete drags Patrick to the living room and lays him down onto a small couch.

“Co-o-ol,” Patrick sighs, comforting himself on a pillow. He hugs Hemingway; dog sits on a woolen blanket next to Patrick.

Pete turns on the nightlight and stares at his guest; he has that fucking right! Patrick’s very young, a little bit chubby and he has a little tummy (but Pete thinks it looks better than flat stomach) and he looks really... Happy?

Patrick moans in his sleep, Pete worries.

“Don’t puke on my couch,” he warns. Pete doesn't like when someone ruins his things. But Patrick's t-shirt already has some stains and Pete decides that Patrick had already passed that ‘throwing-up-phase’. It’s even better. Everyone have to pay for the pleasure, anyway.

Pete opens the bathroom's door; he leaves the lights on and hopes that Patrick will find his way if he needs to.

Pete can't stop staring at this kid and he tries to convince himself that there's nothing to look at: stained t-shirt, jeans with a grass patches. Patrick's not really tidy; he has messy reddish-brown hair and funny sideburns. Pete can't resist the urge and touches Patrick's cheek again; the sideburns are really soft. He's like Teddy Bear. Drunk Teddy Bear.

Patrick snorts and buries his nose (and a visor of his cap) into Hemingway's short hair; the dog yawns contentedly.

“You're good at making friends,” Pete chuckles. Unconsciously, he enjoys this ‘camisado’ fact. But Pete’s going to sleep on a big armchair in the living room.

It’s 01:01am and any wish will come true. Pete wishes that Patrick wasn't suffering from a hungover at the morning.

 

***

_One foot in your bedroom and one foot out the door_

 

“…TOUCH THE SKYYYYYY…”

Patrick practically can't move his hand because Hemingway sleeps on his shoulder. He reaches for the phone, thinking he should make the ringtone quieter or next time he'll get a heart attack because of a loud sound.

Patrick answers the call.

“Um-m?” he wants to say ‘Hi Joe’ but fails.

“Morning, Stump! We already know about your adventures. Me and Andy will arrive in an hour,” Joe grumbles into the phone.

Patrick's intuition perceives that he's not alone in the room, but he can't see anything as the blanket covers his aching head.

“Oh… Okay,” he whispers and ends the conversation.

Patrick doesn't want to leave his warm cocoon. It’s like in childhood; you need to hide under the blanket, and all the monsters and fears will disappear. But in childhood Patrick didn't have the habit of intruding into other people's houses. Actually, he hasn't this habit at all.

It’s just a mistake.

There was a competition, placed in Travis’s bar. Gabe wanted to participate and went to the bar with Patrick for a company, offering him to take a part. It wasn't that easy because GABE WAS ALWAYS SINGING AT THAT BAR, EVERY FUCKING EVENING and Patrick was just playing on the guitar. Sometimes. Patrick didn't want to be seen by someone; besides, Gabe told him some stories about accidents: some guy, Brendon, was knocked out by the bottle and it was very disgusting. Patrick hated those stories as much as he hated those shitty cocktails and whiskey from the bar; but Gabe liked it and he also liked William Beckett and he was trying to catch him for two weeks.

But the problem was, Patrick wanted to perform, but couldn't find the courage.

Gabe decided to settle the trouble in his trademark style: to get drunk. Patrick agreed for some reason and maybe it was a stupidest thing in his nineteen-year-old life. But Gabe had sworn to drive him to Andy and Joe's house on the other side of town; Andy stuck at work in a tattoo-parlor and Joe caught a cold and couldn't come into Travis’s bar.

So, Patrick got drunk.

After the competition Gabe and that Beckett-The-Angel had wanted to ‘spend the time together’, both completely sozzled; Patrick had to get to Andy's house on his own. It wasn’t a good idea.

He had a long trip with transfers and maybe he got into the wrong bus or...

Patrick’s flashback roughly interrupts by dog’s wet tongue; joyful bulldog pulls off a blanket and licks Patrick's face, welcoming. He hears someone walking around the room — it's pointless to delay the inevitable. Patrick sighs resignedly and slides off the couch. He's ready to sink through the floor, but he thinks it's impossible to fall even lower. Anyway, his self-esteem is dead.

“Oh… Hi, Patrick,” the house's owner greets politely; he's wearing a blue pajama pants and red t-shirt. And he has nice tattoos covering his arms. “I am Pete, by the way.”

Patrick’s confused.

“Well… Hi?” he answers and sits up on a couch again. Pete flops down next to him, crossing his legs.

“You broke into my apartments drunk, thinking it’s your friend’s house and I should call the cops but my dog likes you so we’re good,” Pete informs, realizing that not only Hemingway likes Patrick.

Patrick takes off his trucker hat and examines it and then puts the hat on his head again.

“At first, I really thought it’s Andy's house and then I realized that it's not, but I was dizzy, and I was cold, understand me!” Patrick excuses. He's worried about the last night's performance; he simply can't remember it and it’s not a good sign. Patrick just hopes that his singing wasn’t that awful.

Pete looks at Patrick sitting in his living room and he feels like déjà vu; Patrick strokes the dog and shyly smiles as if it has always been that way. He creates cosiness with his presence and it's amazing. Pete thinks he’s lucky one because from all the ‘Alcoholics Anonymous’ the most charming one broke into his apartments.

Patrick’s really cute and Pete feels sad as he realizes that his guest will leave him soon. Isn't it too silly to ask him for a date?

“Take some aspirin, and you'll feel better,” Pete tries to break the silence.

Patrick shakes his head.

“Oh no, Gabe told me the same thing last night; I took aspirin but… It just got worse,” Patrick chuckles and stares down at his stained t-shirt.

“Okay, we’ll not risk then,” Pete laughs at this comical situation. How can Patrick be so adorable?

Patrick feels like his self-esteem resurrected from the dead. He's glad that he didn't get an alcohol poisoning or something like that; surprisingly Patrick feels quite well. It will be much better when he gets to his room and will be sleeping for the rest of the day. In case, if Andy and Joe wouldn't kill him. But he has sobered up successfully and it means that he’s not a complete loser.

Pete can't stop smiling.

Finally Hemingway leaves Patrick alone and tries to put all his weight on Pete’s lap.

Suddenly Patrick remembers that after their performance Gabe said ‘Bilvy likes the serenades’ and then he actually owned Patrick's guitar. If there will be at least one crack on a guitar, Patrick is going to smash his instrument in Gabe's crazy head. Fucking Casanova.

Patrick's cell phone beeps shrilly. An awful standard tune; composer's musical skills were apparently crushed by the herd of a wild buffaloes.

Patrick reads incoming message, Pete glances at him. Patrick squeezes his eyes and almost sticks his nose into the screen; he looks so cute and even helpless.

“What?” Patrick asks tearing his eyes away from his phone. “I just lost my glasses,” he explains and wrinkles his nose. “Yesterday I won the contest in Travis’s bar, by the way… All the visitors gave their votes for me. Oh man…”

Trailing off, Patrick leans against the back of the couch and hesitates for a few moments. After half an hour Joe and Andy will save him from disgrace. Patrick thinks about Gabe’s message: ‘I hooked up Becky; you’re the king of a town’. Does William know that he's ‘Becky’ now?

At heart, Patrick is proud to have won the competition.

At heart, Pete is proud that he sheltered such a talented person.

“You’re like a rock star; you get drunk and break into strangers’ houses,” Pete encouragingly pats Patrick's shoulder. “Will you give me an autograph?”

“I can give you my number,” Patrick says carelessly. He doesn't know yet that crafty Pete already has his number.

Patrick laughs; maybe because of Hemingway's licking his palm again or maybe Pete's attention pleases him. Oh God, Patrick can’t lie to himself — _Pete’s attention pleases him_. Patrick literally thanks the Heaven for his good luck: he came to the wrong address in a good way. He could get into the courtyard which belongs to some old grumbler with a gun, but Patrick broke into a nice young guy's apartments.

The house’s owner at the top of happiness; everything is easier than he expected. Ridiculous meeting a few hours ago, casual talking now and...

“Can we meet in the evening?” Pete’s inner pirate says ‘yo-ho-ho’ and goes to the boarding.

“At the same scenario,” Patrick jokes as he feels like a happy idiot.

Suddenly they hear the car's beeps from the street that means Andy and Joe are already in the front yard. It also means they need to act quickly. Pete grabs Patrick by the collar of his t-shirt pulling him closer — their relationship too clumsy anyway — and freezes face to face with Patrick. Another awkward moment can't ruin anything.

“Well…” Pete starts. He's pretty sure that the heartbeat drowns out his voice.

Patrick snorts mockingly but he doesn't break the hug. He knows what Pete intends to do.

“I need to brush my teeth; don’t kiss me now… But maybe… Tonight?”

“Necessarily,” Pete answers. He presses his lips to Patrick's neck and then to his jaw again and again; he doesn't care that Hemingway licked Patrick's face. Dog's saliva disinfects, isn't it?

Excited duo gets up off the couch and goes to the front door; once Patrick stumbles, Pete catches him.

Pete opens the door; joyful Hemingway slips into the yard and makes his doggy things beside each bush.

Patrick goes to his friends; he looks like a martyr before the execution.

“Thank you,” guy with abnormally curly hair says. He has a lisp, so it's Joe. Pete remembers.

“Thank YOU,” Pete responds. He fully realizes that the meeting with Patrick is the best event in his life.

Patrick also sure that this meeting is the greatest thing in his life but he also sure that he will fall asleep standing in a three... two...

Andy laughs with a relief and says, with the intonation of an university professor.

“Our party was kinda ruined last night so we'd like to take a revanche.”

Joe rolls his eyes and translates the phrase from the ‘Andy's dialect’ into ordinary human language.

“We’re celebrating my birthday. Dude,” he turns to Pete. “Come with us? Grab the dog and let’s go!”

“So? What about you?” Patrick joins the conversation, trying to stay awake.

Pete the second time in the morning feels like he's in the seventh heaven. Is this Heaven’s Grace? Is this Christmas Miracles in an early September? What?

Of course, Pete is not an idiot to miss his happiness. Besides, Patrick owed him a kiss.

A hyperactive tornado called 'Hemmy' expresses his approval as a competent member of the team.

“Let’s go!” Pete agrees waving his hand to all his troubles. His boring life moves to a new level — or bend — but it's just great.

**Author's Note:**

> *it's unbetaed*  
> i'm not new at writing fics but i'm new at writing it in ENGLISH, really. so let me know about all my mistakes. also i'm afraid to be illiterate and i need a HEEEEEEEELP (because i can't see this fic with your eyes but it looks like an english text :D)


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